


the muse, not the sculptor with aching hands /

by incalyscent



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Character Study, Gen, Lowercase, Not Reader Insert, POV Second Person, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, The Fall - Freeform, Wings, can you have a faith crisis if you're an angel asking for a friend, i don't even like this guy here have 3000 words of angst, local poet writes prose, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:08:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27381694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incalyscent/pseuds/incalyscent
Summary: you return, and you sayfather, i have done what you have askedand there is no one there to answer you.
Relationships: Michael & Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 69





	the muse, not the sculptor with aching hands /

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AKL](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AKL/gifts).



> and perhaps just once it would be nice to be  
> the admired, not the admirer /  
> the deity, not the devout on their knees /  
>  **the muse, not the sculptor with aching hands /**
> 
> but that may never be /  
> my foolish heart is much too romantic for dispassion
> 
> -ec (@ecmusings), _upper hand_

you are the first twin.

if you were born, there would be nothing special about the fact. in fact, in regular domestic teasing matches, you would have the upper hand.  _ born two minutes earlier.  _ it would be something to lord over your brother’s head.

but you were made. not born.

you are overshadowed by a brother wearing your face, a brother created with light, who breathes stars, who holds infinity in his hands. and you, you are meant to heal. but something about it that doesn’t sit right. something about it feels like it doesn’t fit.

god couldn’t have made you  _ wrong _ , could he?

if he didn’t, why did he feel the need to make another?

there is  _ hate _ inside you. surely you were not built like that. surely you had to grow it yourself.

-

there was a time when you were close; a time where you were brothers. when you preened each other's wings in confidence, when every hurt feeling was mended with righteous sibling retribution.

you are the one that broke that, you know that now. but the  _ jealousy _ was eating you alive. and so you plant a seed.

if lucifer believed that father was negligent, why not overthrow him? they could do it together. they could rule side by side. and lucifer had clasped his hands and said  _ together, brother _ , and the smile that curls up on your face is worse than the snake he will become.

-

and you curl your hand around the hilt of a sword and think  _ oh, no _ because this is what you think you wanted but you realize in that exact moment that you didn’t want this at all. you told your father that lucifer would rebel and now you lead your siblings into battle. and  _ no _ , you were meant to  _ heal _ , and everything screeches in your head to drop the metal to the floor but it’s  _ too late _ . it’s far too late.

you have damned them all.

-

after the fighting stops, all you feel is  _ pain _ . face down in the mud, the taste of copper, the smell of it, lingers.

you try to roll. something doesn't connect right and the only result is a blinding sear of pain. you cry out, and it's weak, quiet in the even quieter air.

there is a long instant in which you just lay there. there is no victory in this conquest. you lost too many siblings. lost too much love.

when you’re finally able to get your hands underneath you, the right one shakes so badly you give up on it. you lift yourself only to feel the point of a blade at the back of your neck.

" _ please _ stay down." your brother's voice  _ shakes _ . "i don't want to have to hurt you."

you, despite yourself,  _ laugh _ .

“you  _ idiot _ ,” you hear yourself spit. you sound like you’re far away, your ears ringing, mouth slurring. “can’t you see what you have done?”

there’s silence, tense, shiving silence, anxiety so bad it zings up your nerves and it’s not even yours. “it wasn’t supposed to be like this. not like this.”

“father is going to be  _ furious, _ ” you say, the pain lancing up your side, making your teeth grit hard, “if you go now, maybe you can hide from him.”

the sharp metal is gone from your skin with a ragged breath, and with the flap of wings, you are utterly alone.

-

your brothers have to peel you up off the ground and fly you back to the silver city.

later they will say it is lucifer who is the first thing to really suffer. you can't believe them.

none of your siblings scar. none of them  _ break _ . when you can finally stand again you stare at your crooked shoulders, the limp wing where your muscles were cut, and  _ cry _ .

you can't think of the implications of it; are you really that broken? that unfixable? are you irreparable just as you always feared?

when god calls upon you you leap at the chance. you want to be in his graces, but instead a sword manifests in your hands and he says  _ michael, cast your brother into hell _ and you are so desperate you  _ do it _ .

-

the hardest part, you think, is that when you find lucifer he is  _ relieved _ to see you.

“you have to help me,” he says. but you  _ can’t _ . and it’s so  _ easy  _ to overpower him, alight with the righteous fury of god, so easy to drag him down through the gates and onto the barren earth below.

you will deny the guilt you feel at the betrayal in his eyes, the pain, the  _ grief _ and sadness. but your brother is your brother and he isn’t going to go without a fight. when the great chasm opens, and hell yawns to swallow him up, he grabs your injured wing and tries to take you with him. tries to keep himself afloat.

bone splinters. joints pop. you are almost dragged backwards; hell  _ burns _ , fresh and new, all the way to the bone, searing your feathers off. wild in pain, you turn and strike lucifer with the hilt of your sword, and, grasping at the blood, he falls.

you are knelt at the edge of the underworld. you watch his flesh peel. you turn your face when he screams, squeeze your eyes shut.  _ you did the right thing _ . you  _ have _ to have. father wouldn’t have asked you to do otherwise.

your wing throbbing, trailing; your sword arm shaking, you stay there, knees on the ground, for far longer than you think you should. you still loved him, you realize now. despite how he made you feel, despite what he had done with your words in his mouth - you still loved him.

-

you return, and you say  _ father, i have done what you have asked _ and there is no one there to answer you.

-

you forget about the love soon enough.

it’s the  _ pity _ on your siblings’ face when you drag yourself back through the gates that churns it to rage. you smell burnt. you lock yourself away for some time.

your feathers don’t grow back. the fires of hell burned them beyond repair. swaths of feathers, gone. the silhouette of you a jagged edge.

the host is quiet when they see you again, right wing trailing on the ground, torn.

“brother,” amenadiel says, reaching for you, and you jerk away from him, curled around your injured side.

“don’t  _ fucking _ touch me,” you spit, your eyes like some feral thing, and he doesn’t.

there is only sadness in their eyes. you hate it.

without their respect, without your wings, without your other half, what even  _ are _ you?

(you were meant to heal, not harm. mend, not destroy.)

this does not feel like absolution. this feels like sinning in your father’s place. 

-

the years pass. eve bites the apple. it all goes according to god’s plan, or rather, you assume it does. since lucifer’s fall he has not spoken to you. he hasn’t spoken to any of you.

you relearn to fly. it’s a miracle, one of the only things keeping your faith that you have not been abandoned. but you stay crooked. it hurts to hold yourself level, and your right hand shakes. you suppose it’s a fitting condition.

you keep an eye on the world, and sometimes, you see lucifer upon it. he is often drunk and in various states of undress, but at least some part of you is soothed to see him. some part of you is even glad for lilith, her demons, just so he doesn’t have to endure an eternity of torture alone.

these are small mercies, you know. they’re the only kind you come across, these days.

-

“may the lord rebuke you,” you said, into lucifer’s shining eyes. it was god’s will.

-

it’s not the first time you go down since the fall, but it’s the first time you go it’s because you can’t ignore the prayers. not anymore.

it’s called the castel sant’angelo at some point in history, you aren’t sure if it’s this one. your wing aches from the flight but that’s not what you are thinking about right now.

there are people inside, praying to you to kill this illness that plagues them.

they still think you can heal.

you sink down to your knees in the face of it. stare up, like someone can come and help you. stare down at your hands as they shake. they think you can heal  _ but you can’t _ .

you gather yourself up. you go inside.

you are not out of place; there are lame and sickly people lining the floors, the pews. you cannot look at them for long. you do not try it, but you know that if you were to lay a hand on one of those loose souls they would not heal.

you draw eyes. those that can move stray from your path. you’ve seen it in your siblings too and you don’t need to think about the implications.

amenadiel has time. azrael, death. and you? why do you hold fear in your teeth like a vice?

and you hear him before you see him. he’s speaking in one of their human languages, the cadence of it spilling over his tongue. if you were anyone else you’d think he’s tempting them, dragging their immortal sins to damnation, but the people are lax around him, grovelling in thanks, their fear dissipating under his gentle eyes.

ever the charmer, your brother. just another thing he has that you lack.

he has a scar on his chin, where you hit him.

still, enough people take notice of you that he does as well. and you should have anticipated this, you suppose, because his eyes aren’t even on you for half a second before he is attacking you like a feral dog.

it’s nothing like the practiced swordsmanship of heaven; it’s not anything like his usual dance, artfully dodging blows until his opponent is weary. you suppose you haven’t seen him for thousands upon thousands of years.

he fights like a demon. there is nothing you can do.

you end up pinned by your neck on the ground, choking, clawing at a familiar wrist. lucifer’s wings are binary suns, blazing white light, flared high, bristled,  _ angry _ .

“come to  _ taunt _ these people, have you brother?” his eyes flash hellfire red, scorching inferno into the animal terror part of your brain. “or have you just come to see what you’ve done?” 

in a flash of fire his skin peels away, sparks eating up his flesh and you can’t help it. you yelp, thrashing, wings exploding into existence behind you, if only to box him in the temple with the wrist of one. he lurches.

you scramble to your feet, and when you’re up you turn to face him and he is staring. not at your crooked stance, but your wing; the one he grabbed as he fell, desperate to stay afloat. the one mangled.

his red skin fades. his eyes soften, just a fraction. what is it there, that you can see? is it guilt, or is it grief? why do you know it so intimately?

“not so unalike, are we brother?”

something hot rushes up your throat. your bad wing, trailing on the ground, spasms, angry at you from unfurling it so quickly. instead of feeling whatever threatens to choke you, you snarl instead.

“no we’re not,” you spit, “you’re  _ scared _ .”

there’s a flash of hurt in lucifer’s eyes. you don’t need to elaborate. 

he’s scared of father, scared of knowing his place in existence, scared of what he’s become, what he’s  _ becoming _ . he’s scared of the uncertainty he feels, unused to it, used to knowing exactly what he wants and  _ getting  _ it.

and, belatedly, you realise he’s afraid of you.

the glee crawls under your skin like a snake. you grin, wild, and he takes a step back.

he flees.

you are left in the aftermath, emotions roiling that you don’t even know the names of. around you, the people have fled, and if they haven’t, they have fallen to their knees. their fear stabs at you.

“fear not,” you say, voice tight, “ _ fear not _ .” 

-

_ saint michael the archangel, defend us in battle. be our defense against the wickedness and snares of the devil. may god rebuke him, we humbly pray, and do thou, o prince of the heavenly hosts, by the power of god, thrust into hell satan, and all the evil spirits, who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls. amen. _

-

you do not visit earth much. amenadiel grows a disdain for humanity that you gladly adopt. you know he does it out of jealousy. you suppose you do too, though you know father has abandoned them too.

he gave them life, scared them into loving him, and then left them to their own devices. you are similar in a way you don’t want to think about, so you don’t.

you get used to that pain just like you get used to the one in your body. it never goes away. it just gets easier to ignore.

-

you stop keeping tabs on lucifer, because you have better things to do in heaven than to watch a brother scorned. you are vaguely aware of his earthly escapades, but it is amenadiel’s job to wrestle him back into his throne.

you’re vaguely aware of him, until you’re not.

the sliver of jealousy is something you try to ignore. until lucifer refuses to return to hell, rips off his wings. then you replaced it with pride. finally, he does something to warrant his fall since the rebellion. he is  _ pathetic _ .

he is selfish, he is single-minded. there isn’t a way you can think of in which he does not dig himself further into father’s mislike.

and then he goes back. he goes back for  _ love _ .

it’s all anyone can talk about, like the man wasn’t already  _ damned  _ for all eternity. whatever reputation you had managed to scrape together turns to dust in your hands.

_ you _ are supposed to be the hero of this story. the angel that sacrificed it all to carry out god’s will.  _ you’re  _ supposed to be the hero. not him. the saint, not the sinner.

he fell out of heaven and into love. you did rather the opposite.

-

you figure there would be no reason for him to come back if you took all that love and crushed it flat. if he stayed down where he was  _ meant _ to be, heaven would turn her eye, and you’d never have to think about him again.

-

you didn’t realize how  _ hard _ it would be.

-

“do you like the mess i’ve made?”

-

this is the story of how you fall; you chase your tail in circles around a brother damned, tear yourself to pieces for sins you did not commit. your father appears for the first time in  _ millenia _ , and there is no joy.

all you feel is anger. bitterness. how could he do this to you? how could he do this to  _ all  _ of you?

(and why does it feel like grief?)

-

even this, even sabotage comes back to bite you. everything has its claws in you and the only thing you do is hurt.

you have done so many things that hurt you. the salt sticks to the blood. how could you be expected to be  _ pure _ , after all that? how could you be expected to keep it all inward? how long, until it festered?

your name means  _ who is like god _ and you think, maybe, you understand why lucifer bites the name samael like a rabid thing.

_ poison of god _ . what a wretched way to find out a destiny.

-

and you, a mess of pieces; and you, the left hand -

-

you traded healing for the sword, traded it for fear, because you are a coward.

you know it now, too bitter to scrape together what you have of a relationship with any of your kin. it is  _ terrifying _ to face what you have done in the name of the lord. scarier still to try and reconcile with lucifer.

he is not receptive. you tried to hurt his friends, you tried to hurt  _ her _ . unlike you, he scorned the host of heaven and built his own family. you did not have that luxury.

and oh, that fresh gasp of free will you took, trouncing around in his clothes, stealing his accent; it was addictive. amenadiel assures you that you’ve always had it. maybe  _ he _ has. but he doesn’t sleep with the shrieks of people drowning, people dying, in his dreams each night.

when you watched the people crumble to salt; when you pulled lucifer through the gates of heaven, you thought you were doing the right thing. you’re not so sure anymore.

of all the violence you have committed, you have never committed violence like what you inflicted on yourself.

-

so you fall. it’s easy. now get up. you have a whole life to live. 

**Author's Note:**

> dont kill me
> 
> incalyscent-writes.tumblr.com


End file.
